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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23124046">four for a boy</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emamel/pseuds/Emamel'>Emamel</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>nothing is real 'til it's gone [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Daemons, Daemon Prejudice, Daemon Touching, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, M/M, Miscommunication, Pining, Pre-Relationship, no beta we die like renfri</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 06:27:18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>16,128</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23124046</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emamel/pseuds/Emamel</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>As the townspeople shrank back, as they made signs to ward off evil and pulled children and daemons back out of the way, Jaskier had laughed, too loud and forced, and waltzed right into Geralt's space without a moment's hesitation. He had ignored the viscera clumping his hair, the black veins streaking from his eyes, the stench of sweat and death that followed him, and had cupped Geralt's face in his hands. Silent and quivering, Geralt had let Jaskier tilt his head this way and that, had let him run a careful thumb through the blood along his hairline, and had even managed to grunt in the negative when asked if any of the blood was his. Geralt had been pliable, easy to maneuver away from fearful, suspicious stares.</p><p>Like this, Geralt looked poised to bolt and he didn't look like he would much care what was in his way.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia &amp; Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>nothing is real 'til it's gone [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1636618</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>283</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1597</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>sorry</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Julian was eight years old and, everyone agreed, a precocious hellion. He knew that was meant to be a bad thing, but the glint in his mother's eyes made that hard to remember. Especially when there were adventures to be had all over the house and grounds - rooms to explore and monsters to slay. Ness darted around his feet, her soft paws silent on the thick carpet. Today, they were headed to the kitchen - there was a feast to prepare for, and Lena had been frantic for days. There would be servants scurrying around with their eyes fixed to their task, too afraid to allow themselves to be distracted for even a moment. Lena was a force of nature, a taskmaster to be reckoned with, and with the amount of work that needed doing before the evening, it would be a simple thing to slip into the kitchen and steal a honeyed strawberry tart or two from the cooling racks.</p><p>Ness had already told him that this was a bad idea so she didn't bother telling him again. Besides, he was willing to split his spoils with her, and she didn't even <em> need </em> to eat. He could feel her hesitation singing in his own chest though; it was enough to make him slow him down, but not not enough to stop him.</p><p>Even from halfway down the hallway, Lena's powerful voice echoed as she directed the staff with military precision. Julian caught Ness's eye and winked, holding a finger to his lips.</p><p>She rolled her eyes at him. Between one step and the next, she had changed from a fox all the way down to a mouse and scampered up his trouser leg, up his half-tucked-in shirt, and come to rest on his shoulder, where she could whisper in his ear. She bit it, instead.</p><p>"Ouch! Ness!"</p><p>Closer, closer to the door they crept together. Julian pressed a hand over his mouth to muffle his giggling. The noise swelled over him, stampeding feet and calling voices.</p><p>He peered around the corner, and ducked back seconds later when one of the new boys went dashing past the entryway, his bobcat daemon hot on his heels. Julian hadn't learnt his name yet, which was a little rude of him, but he didn't have time to worry about it now. There was a mission to complete.</p><p>A slight lull in the footfalls gave him the opening he needed to slip into the room - he skirted round the tables, trying his best to blend into the shadows. He'd deliberately worn his most boring clothes, with almost no colour anywhere on them, so that he wouldn't stand out like a sore thumb.</p><p>Sofia didn't notice him as he crept behind her, too occupied with rubbing herbs into a side of meat. It smelled delicious, but Julian couldn't let himself get distracted. On his toes, he rushed by, spying his treasure at the far end of the room, tucked away in the corner far from the stove and the roaring fires to cool.</p><p>He got arrogant; too cocky for his own good. Julian broke cover and rushed forward with a delighted laugh, only to be yanked back by a sudden, firm grip on his arm. His head whipped around, and he was greeted by the furious expression of Lena, who was about the same height as him, if not perhaps a little shorter since his recent growth spurt. The halfling woman didn't release his arm, not even when he gave her his most charming smile; the one that ladies of all statuses fawned over as they pinched his cheeks and said he would grow up to be a heartbreaker, just see if he didn't.</p><p>"Julian Alfred Pankratz, just <em> what </em> do you think you're playing at?" She fumed. She wouldn't dare do more than give his arm a brisk shake - his parents were, after all, her employers - but Lena had never had to resort to more to make someone feel like the very lowest scum of the world. Her voice did all the work for her. Beside her, her daemon huffed and shook his head, horizontal pupil fixed on Ness, still clinging to Julian's shoulder.</p><p>In spite of all appearances, Julian really liked Lena, almost as much as he feared her. She was funny, and too clever to be holed up in a kitchen all day, and she only ever called him <em> young lord </em> when there was someone nearby that might scold her, or tell his parents. And she could be terrifying when she said something <em> just so </em> but that was only at times like this, when she was rushed off her feet, and stressed to boot.</p><p>Sometimes, when Julian woke early in the morning and couldn't get back to sleep, he and Ness would dash down to the kitchen to watch her prepare for the day. He would knead dough until his arms ached, and she would laugh and nudge him aside to take over with the ease and care of long years of practice. Lena had no children of her own; Julian wondered if she had ever wanted them.</p><p>Probably not right now. </p><p>"I came to see you, of course, Lena!" He lied through his teeth, which were on gleaming display in his huge smile. </p><p>"Well now you've seen me, well done, very good, away with you!"</p><p>Julian whined as she started to march him back through the kitchen, glancing hopelessly back at the cooling racks before he was whisked away and they were out of reach forever.</p><p>Muttering to herself all the while, Lena stormed out of the kitchen while Hembrenkyas shook his horns warningly at anyone who didn't scurry out of their path quickly enough.</p><p>"And just where is that nanny of yours, anyway?" She asked. Julian grinned proudly.</p><p>"She's busy despairing of me," he said seriously, as though he had been charged with imparting a grave message. "She said she couldn't bear the sight of me another minute longer, and if I wasn't careful, she'd send me out to be stolen away by the witchers. And also, she says she's a governess, not a nanny, and I shouldn't forget it."</p><p>Lena snorted. "You can call 'er a governess when she starts teaching you more than silly old superstitions, and you may tell 'er I said so. What would a witcher want with a child like you, I ask you?" </p><p>Julian didn't rightly know. She had told him many stories of witchers coming in the night to snatch up small children from their beds if they had been naughty, of witchers bursting suddenly from the shadows to slay a monster and then make off with all of a town's valuables while they celebrated. Stories designed to keep him indoors and mild-mannered by terrifying the curiosity out of him, but he wasn't scared; Ness could turn into a wolf, or a tiger, or a great big bear, and he bet no poxy witcher would be able to take her on then. Not even if they were trying to steal her away.</p><p>He shrugged.</p><p>"Maybe they could teach me to be a witcher!" He exclaimed, suddenly very taken by the idea. Witchers had all sorts of adventures, that much he knew. Ness could turn into vicious beasts to help him fight off monsters, and they could travel all around the continent, visiting fine cities together. She would never settle, because there would be no rules telling her that she had to, and witchers probably knew all sorts of magic to keep the Dust (something Julian had started learning about last month) far away from them. It would just be the two of them doing whatever they pleased, forever. And maybe the other witchers would try and take her away from him because they were jealous that he had such a fine daemon and they had nothing, but by then Julian would be stronger than any of them, and Ness could claw out their eyes for trying.</p><p>"Pah!" Lena spat, shaking her head. "What rot has that woman been filling your head with? Witchers don't steal wee ones like you, with a fine family and a daemon at your side. They take in truly young'uns given up to them because their kin doesn't know what else to do with 'em."</p><p>"Well, everyone always says that they don't know what they're going to do with me," Julian said reasonably, which made Ness snicker in his ear. She tugged at his collar with her little mousy paws.</p><p>"That's only because you're a tyke," Lena said with an exasperated expression and a gentle shake of his shoulder. They were halfway back to his rooms by now - Julian didn't like to think how cross she would be when she got back to the kitchen after he had kept her away from it for so long. "Witchers are given cursed bairns, babes that wouldn't survive anywhere else, because they waste away, or old fools try to do away with 'em thinking they'll bring rotten luck. But you and your Ongalness have been inseparable since birth, and witchers don't have daemons, do they? So what good would you be as a witcher, hm?"</p><p>Julian tried to imagine it - a castle full of men and children, swords in hand and hideously disfigured faces, with not a daemon in sight anywhere. He shuddered, and tried to pretend he hadn't when Lena shot him a knowing look. He thought of Ness, of waking up without her on his pillow or curled on his chest. Thought of late nights sat up under the covers, whispering their plans for the future. Thought of being alone, actually and truly alone, with nothing but his own mind and voice for company, and he abruptly wanted to be sick. He tilted his chin back proudly to hide it.</p><p>"Me and Ness would be the very best witchers," he said, and Lena's laugh was shocked.</p><p>"Oh well, in that case," she said, and pushed him towards the door of his - own, private! - study. "No fine witcher like yourselves would be afraid of taking on their nanny and their father when they've been cheeky brats, would they? Away with you both!"</p><p>Julian felt himself go very, very pale.</p><p>"Actually, I don't think I want to be a witcher anymore," he decided, and took off down the hall before she could stop him with Ness clinging to his shirt, Hembrenkyas' bleats of protest chasing him all the way to the door.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>"<em>What? </em>"</p><p>The word may as well have been punched from him, with the sudden tightness in his chest. Jaskier thought of that first day travelling with Geralt, before he knew just which lines to toe around him; when he spread his arms and proclaimed that he would spread tales of the Butcher of Blaviken, with not a single damn clue what he was talking about. Remembered Geralt knocking the wind out of him, of losing his footing and the abrupt swooping in his chest and gut when he realised he couldn't suck in enough air to stand, to speak. </p><p>(Geralt hadn't done it since; had even apologised once, staring morosely into the fire after Jaskier had finally convinced him to tell the whole story of Renfri the Black Sun Princess.)</p><p>This felt just the same, even with Geralt halfway across the room.</p><p>Wild eyed, Geralt swung unsteadily to face them - that, more than anything he could have said, made Jaskier realise just how much this evening must have thrown him. The only time he'd ever seen Geralt uncertain of his footing was when he was on the verge of unconsciousness, usually from blood loss.</p><p>"I," Geralt said; Jaskier winced sympathetically at the rasp of his throat. He swallowed twice in quick succession. "I - <em> fuck.</em>"</p><p>Something in him shifted, and Jaskier realised that he knew that look; recognised the panicked heave of his chest, slow for a human but so much faster than it should be. His eyes darted from Jaskier to Ness, to the door and then the window, and back again. It wasn't something Jaskier had ever seen on Geralt's face, but he would have to be a fool not to see the hopeless anger, the fear.</p><p>That was the look of something trapped - that would gnaw off its own leg if it meant escaping.</p><p>"Geralt," he said slowly, one hand lifting without his conscious thought or permission. He tried to soften his voice, slow his heart from its frantic thrum into something soothing, but the sound of it was enough to break Geralt from whatever trance had overcome him. Quickly, almost too quick for Jaskier's eyes to track the movement, he spun towards the door, still in nothing but the trousers Jaskier'd had made for him and his rumpled shirt - he didn't so much as glance towards his armour or his swords, two things Jaskier had never seen him neglect to think of before. The only thing he was concerned with was getting out of the room as fast as possible.</p><p>Not fast enough. </p><p>Ness burst from Jaskier's lap and shot across the room in an ungainly tumble of feathers, landing on the doorknob and perching awkwardly; she fixed a beady glare on Geralt, who had stopped as suddenly as if he'd been poleaxed.</p><p>"Ongalness," he said, hands held carefully out at his sides - even now, after years of letting her run roughshod over him, of her perching on his shoulder, his arm, his knee - even now he held himself back. As though he expected her to panic if he came too close with bared skin. She ruffled her feathers and glared harder. "<em>Ness</em>. Please."</p><p>His voice broke, and took Jaskier's heart right along with it. He had never, not once in all the time they had known each other, heard Geralt beg for anything.</p><p>"Geralt," Jaskier said again, and he kept his voice low and even - he stood slowly, as though any sudden movement from the corner of Geralt's eye might send him into a frenzy. Jaskier didn't know what to expect; he had seen Geralt return from hunts after three days without food or sleep, driven half out of his mind from potions and still the witcher had seemed more approachable than he did now. He always made such an effort to ensure that Jaskier didn't have to see him after he'd taken a decoction, and Jaskier could understand why, even though he had told Geralt he was being ridiculous a hundred times over. As the townspeople shrank back, as they made signs to ward off evil and pulled children and daemons back out of the way, Jaskier had laughed, too loud and forced, and waltzed right into Geralt's space without a moment's hesitation. He had ignored the viscera clumping his hair, the black veins streaking from his eyes, the stench of sweat and death that followed him, and had cupped Geralt's face in his hands. Silent and quivering, Geralt had let Jaskier tilt his head this way and that, had let him run a careful thumb through the blood along his hairline, and had even managed to grunt in the negative when asked if any of the blood was his. Geralt had been pliable, easy to maneuver away from fearful, suspicious stares.</p><p>Like this, Geralt looked poised to bolt and he didn't look like he would much care what was in his way. Jaskier waited.</p><p>Gradually, breath by panted breath, Geralt’s shoulders slumped - he turned from the door and allowed Jaskier to catch hold of his sleeve and tug him to the floor until they were sat side by side, backs pressed against the bed. Jaskier had always known that any contact between them was merely a liberty that Geralt allowed him to take; if he had ever decided that he didn’t wish to be brushed against, or moved, or held, then he could send the bard halfway across the room with less than a thought and the barest push. It had worried him, for a time - that just because Geralt allowed him these indulgences, didn’t mean they were welcome, and Jaskier had wrestled and fought with himself to keep his hands to himself for the better part of a month. Until he had watched Geralt shrug away the eager hands of admirers desperate to show the witcher their thanks, all while he remained pressed back easily against Jaskier’s side.</p><p>It wasn’t that Geralt struggled to complain of things he didn’t care for - only that he didn’t know how to ask for the things he did. Jaskier had returned to touching Geralt as he had before with gleeful abandon, and he didn't think he had imagined the way Geralt leaned into his hands.</p><p>Ness watched them settle before cautiously deciding that the immediate risk of Geralt fleeing had passed, and fluttered down to tuck herself in the crook of Jaskier’s elbow. They both politely pretended not to notice Geralt’s flinch; barely there, unless they already knew to watch for it.</p><p>How strange, Jaskier mused in some distant part of his mind, that Geralt could still manage to upend his world with barely a sentence and a stricken look. He wasn’t arrogant enough to think that he knew everything about his friend - Jaskier was many things, but stupid wasn’t one of them. But he thought he knew the shape of him well enough, thought that even if he didn’t have all the details - barely enough details for a song, sometimes - then he at least knew the outline.</p><p>And now everything was wrong, he was <em> wrong </em> and he didn’t even manage to notice just <em> how </em> wrong until Geralt had hissed his misplaced fury at them.</p><p>
  <em> With nobody but his daemon for company. </em>
</p><p>The image he had held of witchers since childhood had shifted radically when he first met Geralt - a castle full of men and children, swords in hand, faces scarred and beautiful with piercing eyes, but still not a daemon in sight. And somehow, when he thought of them, when he tried to picture just how Geralt fit among them, he was always one of the men watching over the boys; training them, protecting them, letting them scramble all over him because although he would sooner die than admit it, Geralt was weak for the pleading eyes of children. It wasn't that Jaskier didn't know Geralt had started his training young - only that he had been a witcher for longer than Jaskier had been alive, and any time he tried to think what Geralt might have been like as a child, he could only imagine a solemn boy with white hair and golden eyes, who was alone, alone, <em> alone. </em></p><p>
  <em> Nobody but his daemon for company. </em>
</p><p>Now the image has changed again; to a boy at the bottom of a mountain, alone but for his daemon; lost and scared and old enough to remember it happening but not old enough then to understand <em> why. </em></p><p>Jaskier opened his mouth, but for once found that nothing would come. He didn’t know what to say - what could he say? </p><p>“It wasn’t - hm,” Geralt started, and his face creased in frustration as he struggled to find the words. The hand nearest Jaskier flexed and curled into a fist, and it was an effort not to reach over, to run his fingers across the skin of his knuckles, pulled so tight it was paler than his hair. “There were temples, nearby, good people, that would look after the children until a witcher could take them up the trail. They weren't left."</p><p>Jaskier's mind spun, and he struggled to know just where to begin.</p><p>
  <em> They. </em>
</p><p><em> They </em> weren't left<em>. </em></p><p><em> Were you? </em> Jaskier wondered; he knew better than to ask, yet. The mood Geralt was in, he would answer and then spend months regretting it. His voice was tight, reined in so far that Jaskier barely recognised it. People could claim that witchers didn't feel until they were blue in the face, and Jaskier would helpfully find something to hit their face with until it <em> was </em> black and blue, but he'd never understood how anyone could think that until now. He'd <em> never </em> heard Geralt sound like that. Was this it? Was this what all those idiots thought they heard?</p><p>Jaskier had never heard anyone so<em> wrecked.  </em></p><p>“Geralt, that wasn’t what I - I know you wouldn’t just - and even if they were left, it wouldn’t have been your fault, you have to know that.”</p><p>Geralt’s jaw clenched, and the noise Ness made was barely audible. Jaskier ran shaking fingers over her head.</p><p>“I… would understand. If you thought that. Everyone does,” Gerealt said haltingly. He refused to look up, to acknowledge that both Jaskier and Ness were staring at him.</p><p>“Not everyone, Geralt; lots of people think that you steal babies in the middle of the night, no you’re right, that’s not helping, sorry, sorry.” Ness released her grip on the delicate skin of his inner elbow shaking her head despairingly, but held her tongue because it looked like it <em> was </em> helping. There was the smallest amused twist to Geralt’s cheek that he only recognised because he had spent so long studying it. His hands itched to reach out, to learn the feel of it as well as he knew the curve. Instead, he shifted just enough to press the line of their arms together and tried not to think about the <em> heat </em> of Geralt even through layers of fabric, of the swell of muscle and the bared skin of his forearm. Jaskier had seen him naked, had helped him bathe when he needed it <em> and </em> when he didn’t - this should be nothing. </p><p>But it wasn’t nothing. There was something unspeakably delicate in the air between them that Jaskier was terrified of disturbing. </p><p>“We didn’t steal children,” Geralt said, but his voice had eased, just a little - enough that it no longer made Jaskier’s throat ache sympathetically to hear it. “But - most of the boys that were left for witchers were babes. It was… easier. For them, and for the people that left them. They never knew anything else.”</p><p>And Ness - Ness who would sit beside a witcher long into the night to listen to him murmur, Ness who feared nothing, Ness who was all the best pieces of Jaskier cloaked in fury and feathers - Ness said, “but not you.”</p><p>Geralt’s eyes flashed in the low light as he cut her a surprised look. Tension rippled through his frame before he settled back again - he swallowed heavily, and thumped his head back once against the bedframe. Like he was trying to shake off the memory.</p><p>“Not me,” he agreed.</p><p>The silence was, if not easy, then at least somewhat peaceful. Taking a chance, Jaskier skimmed the very tips of his fingers across Geralt’s hand and had to have a very stern, silent word with the blood that rushed to his cheeks when Geralt unclenched his fist - when his hand twisted and unfurled like a flower seeking the sun. He allowed Jaskier to grip his hand. </p><p>“You can ask,” Geralt said finally, head bowed. His hair shifted, spilling over his shoulder and hiding his expression. Ness clambered up Jaskier’s arm, across his shoulders, and hopped the distance to Geralt’s shoulder where she settled in with a faint sigh; he allowed that too.</p><p>“Do you want me to?” Jaskier wanted to know - he always wanted to know everything about Geralt, so badly that it burned. He could spend his life coaxing stories from his taciturn witcher and consider himself blessed, but this was different. This wasn’t a monster he had slain, it wasn’t a place he had visited. It wasn’t something to be coaxed out unless Geralt offered it freely. Jaskier wanted to know, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to ask.</p><p>Geralt’s hand tightened painfully before going slack - his thumb rubbed against Jaskier’s as though in apology, but truthfully it hurt less than the aching in his chest.</p><p>“It would be… simpler, if you asked. I don’t know where to start. I’ve never -”</p><p>“Right,” Jaskier murmured, and exchanged a worried glance with Ness. He could feel their fear, curled like freezing mist in his lungs, and could only hope that it wasn’t enough for Geralt to smell, or sense, or hear in his shaking heart.</p><p>He couldn’t look at Geralt - stared straight ahead and bit at his lips until he had to stop for fear they would bleed. From the corner of his eye he saw Ness tug at a strand of white hair, soft enough that it wouldn’t hurt a human, never mind a witcher. He could see her feather, abandoned on the ground, and he felt a rush of - of shame, of humiliation, of anger at himself for not realising sooner just what Geralt meant every time he flatly told Jaskier that witchers don’t have daemons.</p><p>They hadn’t meant to, the first few times - hadn’t even noticed it happening until Jaskier had looked up from his lute one evening and realised that Ness was halfway across the room, merrily chatting to Geralt. He had wandered away from her thoughtlessly as he sang, and hadn’t felt the slightest pull at their bond.</p><p>Though he wasn’t proud of it, Jaskier could admit that they had both panicked a little. They had made their hasty excuses to Geralt, and set off without him the next day. Not that they could bring themselves to stay away for long.</p><p>Over time, Jaskier and Ness had come to realise a few things about whatever it was that was happening. They weren’t severing, which was an enormous relief as Jaskier had never heard of spontaneous severance except in the very worst kind of faery tale. He could feel Ness just as strongly as he always could. They still couldn’t travel any great distance from each other - the length of the dining hall at Oxenfurt had been painful to the point that Jaskier almost vomited, and they had had to abandon their experimenting for the day.</p><p>But Ness could always go further when she went with Geralt. On his shoulder or by his side, she could go distances that once would have made them both dizzy with <em> wrongness</em>. </p><p>So, she got curious. The feather had been her idea - to see if they could stretch the distance further still, if Geralt kept a piece of her with him, if she could fly as far from Jaskier to Geralt as she could be carried.</p><p>Jaskier had been - he had been <em> selfish</em>. Had looked at the gleaming black in Geralt’s hair and thought <em> I can keep you. </em> Had thought <em> let them say what they like about us, tonight, and let me believe it's true. </em></p><p>Had thought <em> you always say witchers don’t have daemons; but you could. You could. You do. </em></p><p>Except he <em> had </em>, once. It was one thing for Jaskier to give himself over so completely that his very soul attached herself to Geralt and refused to let go when he had no daemon of his own. It was another thing entirely for them to cling so tightly when Geralt’s own daemon had been taken from him, as though they thought they could somehow replace that presence.</p><p><em> Witchers don’t have daemons </em> Geralt always said, and it was true, everyone knew that. Jaskier should have known <em> better</em>, should have heard the things he didn’t say. <em> Witchers don’t have daemons, but witchers aren’t born; they’re made. </em></p><p>“How old were you?” </p><p>Geralt blew out a long, heavy breath. “That’s not as simple a question as you think it is,” he said finally. “I was very young - I remember it, but it’s faded, and it was a long time ago. I trained at Kaer Morhen for a few years, before the first Trial - I was about ten, then.” Jaskier knew very little about the Trials - only that they were what the witcher apprentices had to live through to complete their mutations and training. He nodded anyway, unwilling to interrupt Geralt.</p><p>“Most children were orphans, or foundlings - there were always more boys in the year after a plague, or a blight harvest. They were taken to the keep younger than I was, but Vesemir put me forward for the Trials sooner.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>He snorted, and the sound was so resentful that Jaskier jolted slightly. “Depends who you asked. Vesemir said it was my destiny. Eskel said I was just too good with a sword by then to have to wait any longer. Lambert said they expected me to die and wanted it out of the way.”</p><p>The thought was impossible to reconcile with everything Jaskier knew of Geralt. It wasn't that he didn't know the Trials to become a Witcher were dangerous - he'd gathered as much from the scant information Geralt had grumbled over the years. But the idea that Geralt may not have been one of the survivors - that at least one person hadn't expected him to be, was, it was…</p><p>Jaskier's breath stuttered, and he had to take a moment to wrestle it back under his control. There was no sense letting himself fret over it now; Geralt <em> had </em> survived, he was sat right there with his thumb still smoothing over Jaskier's knuckles like he knew what Jaskier was thinking.</p><p>Ten. <em> Gods. </em></p><p>"Why did he think that you -" Jaskier couldn't get the words past the sudden closing of his throat. He coughed quietly, but Geralt had understood him well enough that he didn't have to try again. Geralt sighed.</p><p>"I was - close to my daemon, closer than was encouraged. And it didn't always follow, but a lot of our teachers thought that was a sign that you wouldn't survive the first Trial. If I was going to die when I lost her, it was better not to drag it out."</p><p>"Closer than encouraged?" Jaskier gasped for breath; he was no longer sure if the tears in his eyes were fear, fury, or just plain heartbreak at Geralt's matter-of-fact tone. "Closer - dear, that doesn't make<em> sense, </em> your daemon is <em> you</em>, how could you possibly be too <em> close, </em> to, to what, your own soul? What - what did they even consider <em> too close</em>?" Geralt flinched, but he didn't answer - instead he turned slowly, always so aware of Ness when she sat on his shoulder like this, so close to his face and neck, to the skin bared as his half-open shirt slipped.</p><p>"Are you crying?" Geralt asked, equal parts baffled and horrified.</p><p>"Am I - of course I'm fucking crying, Geralt!" He snapped, and scrubbed at his cheeks with his free hand. </p><p>He felt Geralt shift beside him - felt him start to pull back, to stand up and run away, no doubt thinking he would be doing Jaskier some sort of favour by giving him space. He tightened his grip on Geralt and pulled firmly at his arm.</p><p>"Oh no you don't," Jaskier muttered thickly. After Geralt had stilled, Jaskier found himself pushing up from his seat and landing with a solid thump in his lap, without any forethought or permission from his higher faculties. This was not a new experience. There generally wasn't a lot of thinking involved on the occasions he ended up in Geralt's lap - although that was more often down to drink, or exhaustion, or the fact that he was likely to freeze within half an hour if he didn't find a way to get as close to the Witcher as possible. With the ease of an old habit, Geralt's hands slid to his waist and held him in place.</p><p>Jaskier's traitorous heart picked up its absurd fluttering. As though this was a suitable time to remind him just how much he appreciated how broad Geralt's thighs were beneath him, or how easily those hands could - had, from time to time - lift him.</p><p>It wasn't as though he was trying to hide it from Geralt, he told himself; there was no point. He had never been subtle in his affections. The touches, the pet names, the ballads, the ease with which Ness had taken to him - all things that had been noticed by humans everywhere they went. For a witcher, who could smell lust and sweat, who could hear heartbeats and see every minute strain of Jaskier's body towards him, well -</p><p>And Geralt had been kind, all this time. Had never mentioned any of Jaskier's, ah, <em> reactions</em>, had never pulled away from him when he sprawled across his chest on cold nights, had never refused to meet his eyes and muttered that perhaps this had all been a mistake, that he was flattered but he simply couldn't travel with them any longer. He had allowed Jaskier to get as close as he dared, and had stayed there. </p><p>Geralt's fingers curled into the fabric of his doublet.</p><p>"Just give us a moment," Ness muttered in Geralt's ear - she couldn't cry, but her voice was wet nevertheless. "It's a lot."</p><p>Eventually, the gentle motion of Geralt's thumbs just below his ribcage were enough that Jaskier could catch his breath. He glanced down at his hands, resting limply against Geralt's chest, beside the wolf head medallion and shining key. Geralt took the time each evening to polish it once he had finished with his weapons, to Ness' quiet delight.</p><p>"What was her name?" Jaskier asked. There were still tears on his cheeks - Geralt shifted, lifted one hand to wipe them away, even as his mouth twisted.</p><p>"We weren't permitted to name our daemons," Geralt said; it wasn't a lie, Jaskier knew, because Geralt was horrible at lying, just really appalling at it, and he'd never successfully lied to Jaskier about anything. But that didn't mean it was the whole truth either. </p><p>Most witchers may have been given up too young to remember the names chosen by parents' daemons, may not have been <em> permitted </em> to name their daemons; but Jaskier had been a boy once, and rarely had he much cared for what he was or was not permitted to do. He doubted that a castle full of young witchers would be any different. And perhaps it had been so long that Geralt didn't remember her name, but somehow he doubted that was right either. He had known Ness' name before he had known his own - he knew that it wasn't something he would be able to forget, no matter how many years passed.</p><p>Maybe he shouldn't push. If Geralt wanted to tell him, then he would - but Geralt had told him to ask.</p><p>"Geralt," he said, and when there was no verbal reply, he tried again. "Love?"</p><p>Geralt shifted. "Hm?"</p><p>"What was her name?"</p><p>He hesitated. Then -</p><p>"Płotka," he murmured. "Because sometimes when she was mad at me, she'd find a stream, or a trough, and she'd jump in and turn into a fish until I apologised. She was about as stubborn as you two." It was enough to startle a laugh out of Jaskier, even though he was still on the verge of crying - Geralt smiled, just the faintest twitch of his lips, and then seemed surprised by it.</p><p>Jaskier wondered when he had last thought of her and <em> smiled. </em></p><p>"I didn't know," he said, and it was as gentle as Geralt's breath fanning across his cheek. He brushed a hand over Geralt's hair, tucked it back behind his ear, and left his hand where it came to rest at the side of his neck. Ness nibbled at his fingers, perilously close, but Geralt didn't even seem to notice. "That you had - I always thought that witchers took in cursed children, that had been born without daemons, or something." Geralt shook his head, smooth enough that he didn't dislodge Jaskier's hand.</p><p>"That's an old superstition," he said wryly. "Haven't heard it for a while."</p><p>Jaskier shrugged. "It made more sense than anything else. I always thought that severance left people like… well. You know."</p><p>Severance had been illegal all across the continent for longer than Jaskier had been alive, and for good reason. The stories had been muddled by time and the fact that no-one liked to think of them, never mind talk about it, but he knew as well as everyone the sort of shell left behind by the mages that first started experimenting with Dust and daemons. As much as people liked to accuse Geralt of having no emotions, he was nothing like <em> that. </em></p><p>The lines of Geralt's face softened imperceptibly.</p><p>"It wasn't severance the way you're thinking of," he said, and his eyes were so, so tired. "They spent a lot of time trying to prepare us, to give us the best chance of surviving - they made sure we knew that if we lived then we would be alone, stretched the bond between us, put us through the first Trial before our daemons settled - and anyone that settled early wasn't put through the Trials at all. They could continue their training, but they would never go on to be a witcher."</p><p>"Which is why you were so young," Jaskier murmured; Geralt's eyes flashed.</p><p>"Don't pity me," he said sharply. "I was given a choice - it was more than the boys training with me had." As though he couldn't see how that was <em> worse </em>.</p><p>Despite himself, Jaskier felt anger surge up his throat, echoed by the furious click of Ness' beak. The biggest choice he had had to make when he was ten was which of his aunts' estates he wanted to visit for his birthday. The thought of being asked if he would give up Ness for the sake of the life he had been working towards almost as long as he could remember made him want to scream. He thought of the way Geralt spoke of Vesemir, affectionate and deferential; he realised suddenly just how viciously he hated a man he had never met, for putting that on Geralt. Would his wishes have been honoured if he had refused? What would have happened to him if he had? Would he have been allowed to continue his training as well, or would it have been different for him if it wasn't simply the settling that made the decision? He couldn't bring himself to ask - didn't think he could stand to know the answer, if Geralt himself even knew.</p><p>"It's not a choice you ever should have had to make," Ness managed to restrict herself to saying. "It wasn't fair to put that on you, Geralt."</p><p>Geralt huffed, and his lip curled just enough for Jaskier to catch a glimpse of sharp canines before he managed to get his expression back under his rigid control.</p><p>"Płotka and I, we talked about it. We agreed to the Trial. And we were young, and I was stupid, and we thought that maybe -"</p><p>"That you would be different," Jaskier whispered as horror thrilled down his spine. He and Ness had thought the same - that she would never settle, that they would be different somehow. They had grown up a little at a time, and come to realise that almost every child thought the same. </p><p>"Hm. And then I woke up, after, and I had survived, and she was gone."</p><p>"Fuck," Jaskier hissed, and without pausing to think it through, he dropped his head to Geralt's shoulder and let the tears start all over again. "<em>Fuck. </em>"</p><p>Hesitantly, Geralt's arms slipped further around his waist into something like a true embrace. His head tilted to press against Jaskier's; he thought he felt the barest brush of Geralt's mouth against his hair, but it was there and gone again so fast that it might have been nothing more than a wish.</p><p>"It was a long time ago," he said. Jaskier choked on his next breath and thumped ineffectually at Geralt's chest.</p><p>"Fuck off, how dare you try and comfort me, I'm comforting you," he sniffed. Geralt's laughter, gentle as it was, rumbled loud as thunder under Jaskier's cheek.</p><p>"Is that what you call this?" He asked, and damn him, Jaskier could hear the smirk. As though none of this was affecting him in the slightest, like it really was nothing more than an unpleasant memory and not something that he'd had to live with every day since.</p><p>How many times had people proclaimed him a monster upon seeing that he had no daemon - had thought him less than a person, less than the beasts he hunted because at least the beasts didn't appear to be human? How often had Geralt had listened to the mutters and thought of his Płotka?</p><p>How often had he looked at Ness, had watched her and Jaskier together, had indulged her every whim and curiosity, and remembered when that had been something he'd had for himself?</p><p>How often had Jaskier and Ness thrown themselves recklessly at him, and not seen what it was they were doing?</p><p>Geralt sighed heavily - Jaskier's head rolled with the movement of his shoulder.</p><p>"Stop that," he commanded. "Whatever it is you're thinking of, stop it."</p><p>"Makes a change from you telling us that we never think anything through," Ness said, because she knew precisely what Jaskier would have liked to say to that had he not been too busy getting a hold on himself. </p><p>"I'm not saying that you're thinking anything <em> through</em>, you pedantic thing," Geralt said, and how had Jaskier never put the pieces together in how he spoke to her? Like she was something precious, something to be revered and protected. </p><p>They were quiet, for a time.</p><p>"What happened to her? She was gone when you woke, but what actually - what happened to her?" Jaskier asked finally. He pressed his forehead against the point of Geralt's shoulder, and let the dull pain distract him from his racing thoughts.</p><p>"It - doesn't matter," Geralt said. He sounded uncomfortable. Well, tough - this was something they needed to know.</p><p>"Mages can travel miles from their daemon, Geralt, what if they just -" Ness started.</p><p>"No." His tone brooked no argument. "It wasn't that - they didn't just… just lock her in another room and tell me she was gone. I knew she was. I <em> know. </em> Do you think I wouldn't notice if they'd just pulled us a little further apart than before? I'm not a mage, Ness, they wouldn't have been able to separate us that far, no matter how well trained we were."</p><p>Before Jaskier could warn Ness to shut her flapping beak, she had snorted and muttered, "shows what you know."</p><p>The sudden tension in the room would have needed one of Geralt's swords to slice it. Beneath him, Geralt was suddenly unmoving.</p><p>"What," he said, voice so low it echoed in Jaskier's ears. "Do you mean by that, Ongalness?" Jaskier had never once been afraid of Geralt, but he thought he could understand, in that moment, how he could be. Neither he nor Ness moved, as though Geralt might somehow forget they were there if they could only hold still enough.</p><p>"Nothing," Jaskier tried, and winced at how much it sounded like a question.</p><p>"<em> Jas</em>kier," he said, and Jaskier winced again. That was not the voice of a man prepared to drop the subject, no matter what tricks they tried. He glared briefly at Ness, who did at least have the decency to look a little ashamed of herself.</p><p>"How, ah, how, how far could the two of you go?" Jaskier asked - Geralt glared at him, just to make sure he knew he wouldn't get away with avoiding the topic for long, before saying,</p><p>"Couple of rooms apart, comfortably, I think. Went halfway across the keep once, was sick for three days."</p><p>"Right, right. And how big would you say the banquet hall tonight was?"</p><p>"Jaskier," his voice was a warning, was every horror story about witchers ever told, and all Jaskier could do was grit his teeth because he had more than once caught him sneaking candied almonds into his bag alongside his coin because he knew Jaskier and Ness enjoyed them. If there were ever a chance that he would be scared of Geralt, it had long passed. "Get. To the point."</p><p>They had sort of suspected that Geralt hadn't noticed, but it was still a shock to have it confirmed. The man could see the faintest movement a mile away on a moonless night, could hear rabbits moving beneath the earth, could sense danger coming long before a beast made itself known.</p><p>Maybe he hadn't wanted to notice - maybe it was too familiar, too painful, so he had chosen not to see what was happening.</p><p>"I flew to you when that man tried to sneak up on you," Ness said. Geralt's expression may as well have been carved in stone. Jaskier wasn't sure that he was breathing. "Geralt, where was Jaskier?"</p><p>His jaw worked. He shook his head and his eyes darted past Jaskier; locked on a point on the floor behind him. He took one ragged breath before freezing again.</p><p>"It - it can't be a spell," Geralt muttered around clenched teeth. His hand crept up to the perfectly still medallion at his neck. "It can't - Jaskier. Ness?" A full body shiver rippled through him. "How long has this been getting worse?"</p><p>Ness pulled at Geralt's hair, and the flash of hurt belonged to them both when he recoiled.</p><p>"Geralt, darling, it's alright," Jaskier tried - nausea curdled low in his gut as Geralt's face twisted. His hands had dropped from Jaskier's waist to scratch uselessly along the floorboards; he didn't seem to realise he was doing it. "Really, we -"</p><p>"Long enough to hide it," Geralt said, and he was breathing again at least - as wild as he did after a fight, when he was bloody and pained and trying so hard not to let anyone see. Panic began to settle over Jaskier, heavy as a shroud. "Long enough that you - how far?"</p><p>"Geralt -" it was Ness' turn to try, but she cut herself off with a gasp at his sudden snarl.</p><p>"How <em> far? </em>"</p><p>Jaskier gathered every moment of courage he had learnt at Geralt's side.</p><p>"Most of the banquet hall," he said.</p><p>"Further when I'm with you," Ness finished for him.</p><p>The sound Geralt made was like nothing Jaskier had ever heard. Every comparison fell short - and oh, there were lots, his mind was racing even as everything around him came to a grinding halt. Agonised, gutted, wounded, desolate, Melitele help him he'd heard it all in Geralt's voice before, and nothing, not any of it came close.</p><p>Geralt <em> keened</em>. </p><p>He rocked forward; all of the fight, all of the anger was gone, drained away so fast that Jaskier reeled. Frantically, he ran his hands up Geralt's neck, held his head and smoothed an unsteady path across his cheekbones. </p><p>For a moment, Jaskier thought it was working.</p><p>"Fuck!" Geralt gasped, and threw himself as far back as far as he could until he hit the bed frame, away from Jaskier's grasp. "<em>Fuck!" </em>His hands fell uselessly away, and Geralt scrabbled beneath him. Uncoordinated and desperate, he writhed until Jaskier was thrown from his lap to the floor - by the time he could right himself, Geralt was halfway across the room.</p><p>Ness clung to his shoulder by her claws - even through his shirt she must have drawn blood, but right then Jaskier didn't think Geralt would notice if someone slipped a knife between his ribs until the moment he passed out.</p><p>"Geralt, <em> stop!</em>" She cried.</p><p>It was worse than before, so much worse. The tendons in his neck stood out in stark relief as he held himself as far from her as possible. Jaskier could see the gold of his eyes were ringed with white.</p><p>"Ongalness," he said - Jaskier could hardly hear him. "Ongalness, let go."</p><p>Ness puffed herself up to almost twice her usual size, feathers gleaming so close to Geralt's skin that there could only be a breath between them. Jaskier hauled himself to his feet.</p><p>"<em>Ongalness." </em></p><p>"No!" She snapped. "Geralt, this isn't something you can run away from!"</p><p>Something flickered in his expression. The look he shot Jaskier was stricken. Jaskier swallowed hard and tried not to think of the conviction in his voice when he spoke to Calanthe.</p><p>
  <em> This is no monster.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He has a daemon. </em>
</p><p>So had Geralt, once; he had been running from her memory even as he clutched it tight. Had thought himself inhuman, a monster, and had struggled to grasp that Jaskier didn't see the same.</p><p>"Jaskier, please, you - she can't -"</p><p>Thought that the same thing was happening to them. Geralt was shaking. His mouth flattened - his eyes gleamed, and then went dull. </p><p>“Geralt -”</p><p>Jaskier’s voice died in his throat. His knees buckled. Every breath tore its way from his lungs - he clutched at his chest, at the impossible warmth curled there. He knew the feeling well; it was sitting too close to a fire to warm his wind-chilled face with Geralt sat against his back to shield him from the bitter cold. It was sinking into a bath with Geralt’s presence a solid comfort in the corner of the room. It was the satisfaction of finally finishing a new song and watching Geralt’s eyes drift shut as he and Ness sang it through for the first time. It was sharing meals, and drinks, and catching the amused glint in Geralt’s eye; it was knowing that he’d put it there, and that he was the only one who could see it.</p><p>It was a thousand memories and moments of heat, of Geralt, of <em> love</em>.</p><p>Cradled in Geralt’s trembling hands, Ness opened her beak; too slow. Jaskier dragged in a shaking breath; too slow.</p><p>Geralt knelt, let Ness slide from his grasp, and fled from the room.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Geralt's terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad decision making process</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>What even is time? Can anyone say for certain that it is real? Don't look at the calendar, don't let it rule your life, and definitely don't worry about how many months it has been since I updated this</p><p>Um, a generalised warning for the fact that Geralt's headspace is kind of a mess for this chapter, and he thinks some pretty nasty things about himself. It's not any worse than the sort of talk we get in witcher canon, but just to make you guys aware</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Płotka woke him just before midnight with a cold nose to the crook of his neck; he came awake instantly, silently, just like a good witcher should. Her eyes gleamed in the low light from the moon, and Geralt knew that one day he wouldn't need even that much to see her on a dark night like this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He kept one hand on her back and let her lead him through the room, past the other sleeping boys and their daemons. She nudged him softly, correcting his course, and he froze as he bumped against a chest at the end of someone's bed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They waited until they heard a snore before carrying on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The halls were cold enough that his teeth rattled - even though his feet were bare, his steps echoed down the main staircase. He crept after Płotka as quickly as he could on the balls of his feet, but eventually gave in and clambered onto her broad back. Pressed deep into her fur, he was shielded from the worst of the chill, and her wide paws made almost no sound despite her bulk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Together, they made their way out of the keep and into the frozen night - Geralt shivered and tucked himself closer to Płotka's skin. She rumbled faintly beneath him; he turned his face to feel the vibrations of her laughter against his cheek.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The forest was dense, and even in the depths of winter the trees blocked out the weak moonlight. Płotka knew the trails, though, and no matter what shape she took, she never put a paw wrong. Geralt could only hope that that was a good sign for him - to have a daemon already so well suited to a witcher's life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She carried him for what felt like hours, but when they finally emerged onto the path, the moon was still high above them, thin and sickly-pale. Below them, the trees thinned out, and scrubby bushes clung to the rocks where the mountainside had crumbled away. No-one could make it up or down the path without the help of a witcher.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or so the stories went.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They had made it halfway down the path no less than three times the first month they'd been at Kaer Morhen, Geralt pressed close to Płotka's back and his eyes burning with fierce tears. She had found the trail with ease, their memory of following the witcher Vesemir still fresh, and they had recklessly hurried down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No matter how fast they went, though, they hadn't been as fast as a witcher. He had been dragged back, kicking and screaming as Płotka huddled in his shirt, as small and unobtrusive as possible so that the witcher wouldn't be able to grab her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That first month, Geralt had spent more time than he was proud of now working himself into hysterics at the thought of his mother coming back to the road to find him gone; of her seeing that he'd been snatched away by a witcher, just like the villagers always whispered about. The man had claimed that she asked him to take them in, but Geralt knew better than to believe him - his mother wouldn't have done that, wouldn't have sent him away to these people that stole children and daemons. All he'd had to do was make his way back down the mountain, to the main road, and she'd be able to find them again, and she'd sort it all out and they would be alright, they'd be a family again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had taken Geralt a long time to come to terms with the fact that Vesemir was many things - but never a liar. Visenna had left them, had rid herself of them while Árléast watched with his great, sad eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had thrown himself into training after that - he may not have been enough of a son for Visenna, but he could at least prove himself as a witcher. If he couldn't be good enough to keep, then he could at least be good enough to help.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And through it all - through the long nights, and the early attempts to run, and the training and the nightmares and the horror stories the other boys liked to whisper in the dark while they all huddled together between their beds with their daemons sprawled across the pile - Płotka had been with him. She would stay with him, no matter what he chose now. He’d already told Vesemir that he planned to go ahead with the trials, but -</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt wasn't a fool. He knew that no witcher had ever had a daemon - but then, no witcher had ever had Płotka.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"There it is," she murmured, staring at the gap between the trees. It had been years since they had tried to run - no-one would think to come looking for them down the trail for hours. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was their last chance. He could remember how one of the boys just a few years older than Geralt, part of the last group to pass through the trials, had been quietly moved to a different training group after his daemon had settled - he remained at the keep, but Geralt barely saw him these days. And although Geralt was the youngest of his group, he knew that he would be put forward this time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If they were going to run, it would have to be now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm scared," Geralt murmured to her finally, so soft that she would barely catch it. Her ear flicked towards him, and when she sighed, his whole body rocked with the movement of her sides. He would never admit such a thing within the walls of the keep - but this far out, there was no-one else to hear him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I know," she said. Of course she did. "I am, too."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Together, they stared down the mountain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt didn't know what happened to daemons during the trial of Silence - neither of their investigations had been very fruitful. All he knew was that boys and daemons went in together, and only witchers came out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But what would happen to an unwanted almost-witcher boy and his daemon? Where in the world could they possibly go; who would be willing to take them in, after they had already left their life behind twice over? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We still have time to make it down," he said, twisting his hands into the scruff at her neck. She was a bear for now, and that would suit well enough for part of the trail; but she would probably have to shift into something a little more agile as they descended. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We do," she agreed gently. "But is that what you want?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What did he - what did they want? Geralt hadn't wanted to be left behind to the care of a stranger, he hadn't wanted to come to Kaer Morhen, he hadn't wanted to be thrown together with boys that touched each other's daemons without a thought, much less a care; and yet, here they were.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn't want to be a witcher. He didn't know how to be anything else.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn't want to lose Płotka.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You won't go?" He asked, hating how his small voice shook. It hadn't started to crack yet, not like Eskel's. </span>
  <em>
    <span>His</span>
  </em>
  <span> voice flipped high and low with such alarming speed that Geralt had at first thought he'd come down with a winter sickness. Geralt's was just… soft.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Of course not," Płotka said, and tossed her head. "If I have to, I'll run and hide - we can separate halfway across the keep now, even though it hurts, I'll turn into an ant and stay hidden as long as I need to. I'll turn into - into an eagle, and I'll claw all of their eyes out if they try to take me. I'll turn into a unicorn, and gore every one of them that comes close to us."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t funny, not really, but still Geralt felt the beginnings of a laugh in his chest, that echoed back through her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know you will,” he said, and pressed his face down, deep into her thick fur. She was as loyal and true as Geralt had always hoped to be. As stubborn and fierce as any witcher. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without another word, she turned and started to head back towards the keep - she didn’t need Geralt to say it out loud. It was her decision as much as it was his, no matter what happened next; but they had always been in agreement on this, deep down, even when Geralt wavered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The other boys at Kaer Morhen, the witchers, they didn’t understand - not really. To them, their daemons were something wholly separate, beings that they weren’t encouraged to be too close to, emotionally or physically. And though they rarely listened to their instructors in such matters, Geralt knew that they would always see their daemons as being something just slightly other to themselves.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It would make it easier for them, when they stepped forward for the trial, he thought. They wouldn’t have to fight off the instinctive wave of disgust and soul-deep fear that came from the thought of losing their daemon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Płotka’s next step was deliberately jarring enough to click his teeth together. He swatted at her shoulder, and her laugh was a throaty rumble beneath him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’ll be alright, cub,” she said softly, as Árléast used to when Visenna worked late into the night and neither of them could sleep. “Whatever happens, it’ll be alright, you’ll see.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And we’ll be together,” Geralt said, insistent. She was silent for a few steps as she ducked between the trees and focused on clambering back up the quickest route to the keep. There were hours yet before dawn came, and with it the morning bell, but now that they had made up their minds, there was no reason to linger out in the cold.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” she agreed, too gentle for Geralt to hear, already drifting to sleep on her back as he was. “We’ll be together.”</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt clasped his hands tight to his chest as he thundered down the stairs. The few patrons still sat huddled around uneven tables or perched by the fire turned to watch him go, mouths open and eyes wide. He could only imagine how it looked - the witcher fleeing in the middle of the night, barely dressed, too afraid to reach out to even open the door. It nearly came off its hinges when he shouldered through, and it wasn't until he slipped on the wet cobbles that he realised he was still barefoot. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Almost everything he owned was still in the room, but that didn't matter - he only had to wait until morning, at the very latest, and he would be able to slink back and gather his belongings. Jaskier and Ness wouldn't want to risk staying there too long, now; would find somewhere he would struggle to track them down, no doubt. If they even waited until morning, and didn't simply start packing the moment he had left the room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It would be in their best interests not to wait around, he knew, but the thought of them sneaking out of the back door into the chill night to avoid even the risk of seeing him was -</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt had always known how this would end - brutal, and pained. He still wasn't prepared. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The stables, at least, were dry and well sheltered from the wind. A few heads lifted over the stall doors to watch his passing, before quickly losing interest and going back to dozing or picking lazily at haynets.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Roach was where he had left her, resting one back foot and lower lip hanging. She deigned to open her eyes at his approach, but offered no other greeting - though she allowed him to settle himself in the corner of her stall with nothing more than an agitated flick of her tail, which was about as much affection as he could reasonably expect from her after pushing her so hard for the past few days.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well - it wouldn’t be the first time he had spent the night in a stable. Nor, he suspected, would it be the last. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It</span>
  <em>
    <span> was</span>
  </em>
  <span> the first time he’d spent the night in a stable since he had started travelling with Jaskier, though. Even in the towns that hissed and spat in his wake, even when they didn’t have two coins to their collective names, Jaskier always managed to find a way to secure them, if not a bed, then at least a room somewhere. Ness generally settled herself on the nearest ledge to Geralt as he did so, and -</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sweet Melitele, he’d been a blind fucking idiot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tried to cast his mind back, tried desperately to remember the first time she’d stayed by his side instead of flitting along next to Jaskier - when she had started using his shoulder to perch instead of a chair or table. There had to have been something that changed, something tangible, but no matter how hard he thought, he couldn’t trace it. He simply… hadn’t noticed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Some witcher he was; couldn’t even keep track of a single bard and his daemon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He'd known that he should have pushed back harder when Ness settled herself on his knee, when Jaskier watched them fondly as Geralt offered her sweetmeats and pretended he hadn't bought them specifically for her. Each time he let them wrap themselves up in his life just that little bit tighter, and knew that he should cut all ties before it was too hard on them all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And now this. As if it wasn't enough that he couldn't keep a hold on his own daemon through the trials - now he'd started to steal away Jaskier's.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There had been stories of witchers stealing daemons for as long as there had been witchers. Such things were to be expected; it was nothing short of terrifying to most, he knew, to see a person go by with no clue as to what shape their soul might take. With no indication that they had a soul at all, anymore. </span>
  <span>Geralt had always scoffed at them; he knew better than any scornful, fearful human what he was and was not capable of. Jaskier and Ness, meanwhile, had been by turns deeply amused and utterly outraged by the old tales. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>How could you possibly steal me away, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Ness would joke, </span>
  <em>
    <span>when I would choose you in a heartbeat. </span>
  </em>
  <span>And Jaskier would gasp, press a hand over his heart, and try to hide his smile when he turned as though to storm away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ness used to follow him immediately - Geralt couldn't quite put his finger on when she had started to linger, instead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He rubbed a shaking hand across his mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So many moments, so many memories took on a sickly new light as he turned them over and over. The pale faces that watched him pass as Ness brightly scolded him; the pitying looks bestowed on Jaskier whenever he requested a room for them to share, the fearful glances cast his way when Ness joked that they wouldn’t want to stray too far from their favourite muse; the whispers at the banquet, and Mousesack’s odd amusement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fuck - it seemed like the entire continent had known before Geralt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It hardly mattered, though - whatever it was he had done to them, whatever thrall they had been held in, it was broken now. It had to be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ness had felt so - </span>
  <em>
    <span>small.</span>
  </em>
  <span> So impossibly light and fragile, cradled in his hands. To see the pallor of his skin, the uneven lines of scars so sharply contrasted again glossy feathers had twisted at his heart, but he hadn’t allowed himself time to linger over it. He had hoped, at first, that he would be able to talk some sense into one of them - it didn’t matter which one. He had hoped that Ness would return to Jaskier’s side; would let him leave unhindered. Surely they would see how dangerous it was to let him stay close by their side. Surely they would understand that he couldn't stay, not without putting them more at risk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They knew about Płotka, knew what the trials had done to her. They knew that he was a shadow left behind, an afterimage of the man he might have been. They wouldn't risk the same fate for themselves, he had been sure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, he should have known better than to think he could understand what went on in their minds. Jaskier had reached for him - Ness had clung to him. And Geralt had needed to get away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn't know how far she would have been able to hold onto his shoulder before the distance from Jaskier became too much, but he knew that he would be weak in the face of their suffering. It would slow him down, give him enough pause that Jaskier would be able to catch them up, and he knew that if he chased Geralt down, if he asked him to stay -</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was very little that Geralt wouldn't do, if Jaskier would only ask.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And so he had braced himself; had gritted his teeth and hardened his heart, and told himself that it was for the best as he scooped Ness up between his bare hands. He hadn't yet managed to find anything that would make them stop following him, stop thinking him a far better man than he deserved - but this, he knew, would do all that and more. This, a betrayal of trust so deep that there were a few places on the continent that considered it a crime worthy of hanging. They would hate him, they would never be able to look at him again, but they would be safe. They would leave, and in time they would come to realise that travel with a witcher could only ever end in tragedy, and Geralt would find a way to live with that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He still hadn't been prepared.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Daemons weren’t made of flesh the same way as the animals they mimicked; but they were still warm. They breathed. They had a heartbeat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt had been able to feel Ness’ heart quivering against his fingertips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The surge of emotion that swept him had almost been enough to send him falling to the floor after Jaskier. It wasn’t the first time he had wished that the stories were true, that witchers truly were incapable of feeling - there weren’t many things he wouldn’t have done to be able to carve the sudden longing from his chest. It had been like returning to Kaer Morhen after a too-long year, and like leaving again after a too-short winter; a comfort, a blessing, and a ragged seam where he had to tear himself away again to return to the Path. It was sinking into water that still held Jaskier’s scent, it was strong hands unflinching against his skin, it was a song and a story recited perfectly a hundred times over, because although Geralt had never told him, Jaskier knew which was his favourite. It was something that had come to mean home, and familiarity, and a warmth so powerful that he felt fevered with it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If not for Ness’ racing heartbeat, if not for Jaskier’s gaping mouth, Geralt may never have been able to let go. He had never claimed to be a good man, and he wasn’t too proud to admit that there was little he wanted more than to cling to them both; to wrap that feeling up deep in his chest and hold it there. He wanted to build on it, to add a hundred thousand more moments on top until he could burst with them. He wanted - </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wanted -</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wanted them safe. More than the ache already settling in his heart and his marrow, more than the rippling love that spread under his skin, he wanted them to be safe. Safe from him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier had been brought to his knees by nothing more than a careful touch - they had both been silenced, breathless in a way Geralt had never known them. He had been nothing short of monstrous, but fuck, if it </span>
  <em>
    <span>worked</span>
  </em>
  <span> -</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt pressed his eyes shut, rubbed the heels of his hands against closed eyelids until starbursts formed in the dark.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It didn’t matter what he wanted, he told himself fiercely. He’d wanted a lot of things, and look where it had got them. The important thing was what Jaskier and Ness wanted - or at least, what they had thought they wanted, before. Geralt had never spent as much time with a human as he had with Jaskier. Never returned to someone year after year, never spent long days together on the road and longer nights curled up and shivering by a fire. There was no way of knowing if this was something born of his - of his wretched fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>desire</span>
  </em>
  <span> to twist himself up in Jaskier’s life, or if it was just bad damn luck that the one human he would do anything to keep safe was also the only one that spent enough time with him to be affected. Was this something that could happen again? Would it keep happening, to any human Geralt tried to befriend?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Would it keep happening to Jaskier, even with the distance the bard would put between them now?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt could only hope not, could only hope that whatever the fuck he had done to them wasn't irreversible. Neither of them seemed worried by it, didn't seem to think of it as a severance; but there was no guarantee it wouldn't get worse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even the thought was enough to make his breathing quicken and rasp in his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thought of Cigydd - of the little bird following him for years after he'd killed Renfri, nothing more than a spectre in the Dust beside the old familiar shape. Was that what he did to daemons, to all daemons if he was near them long enough? Would he swallow a potion one day and turn to see Ness' slight form beside him, nothing more than Dust?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Witchers didn't retire, but he knew that should that day ever come, it would at last be the day he was too slow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He swallowed twice, dry throat clicking. He was panting, he realised distantly, like he was a child on his third run of the Killer. Must have been for some time - there was an uncomfortable humming in his ears, and his head may as well have been stuffed with wool.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not a bad idea, that - he'd probably fuck up less if there was nothing but wool in his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a reason Vesemir had always told him not to let himself get too close to humans. Lots of reasons, in fact; not the least of which was that Geralt had never managed to harden his heart quite as well as he liked to think he had. This would - it wouldn't be enough to break him, but it would leave its own scars. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then, of course, the thought that if anyone ever found about this…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn't as though witchers were well-liked as it was, but he didn't doubt that humans could learn to hate them just that bit more. Especially after Jaskier had spent so many years working to build goodwill for them among the people.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gods. He hadn't even considered that Jaskier may start looking to tear his reputation back down to tatters. It wasn't as though he would blame him for it; Geralt more than deserved any punishment the bard chose to bestow on him. But - but he couldn't help but think that Jaskier wouldn't. Oh, he could be petty enough when the mood struck him, but he was also stubborn, and hated to admit when he was wrong. To have spent years extolling the virtues of witchers, only to one day suddenly change his tune and begin spitting vitriol on their very name would - to Jaskier, at least - seem like an admittance of ignorance, of arrogance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, it would also be easy enough to claim that Geralt had forced him to say all of those things - it wasn't as though he hadn't heard that speculation from people before. Geralt could only hope that there would be enough remembered fondness for witchers in Jaskier and Ness that he would keep silent about Geralt's betrayal. Even if only for the sake of the others walking the Path - he couldn't bear the thought that he might have made their lives even harder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well. If he started hearing songs of the Butcher over the next few months, then he would know. Until then, there was nothing he could do but keep his head down and keep taking contracts, travelling in whichever direction took him furthest from Jaskier and Ness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gulped back tears at the thought. The last time he had cried like this had been the months after the first trial - after he'd opened his eyes and the only other living soul in the room had been Eskel, slumped and fast asleep at his bedside. Płotka had… had gone while he had been insensate, and Eskel looked so pale without his Cliamon by his side. Geralt had cried then, long and hard enough that Eskel startled awake and crawled into the bed with him, sniffling against his neck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vesemir had woken them both the next morning with a gentle hand to their shoulders. His stern look told them that they shouldn't let anyone catch them showing such softness again, but he had never said a word about it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt wished Eskel was there; gentle Eskel, unmoved in the face of any storm. He wished for Lambert; brash Lambert, prickly Lambert, who always let Geralt's head fall on his shoulder in the long, dark evenings of winter with only a quiet grumble of protest. He wished for Vesemir's steady patience and the aching wisdom that only came from outliving everyone he'd ever loved.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wished Płotka was there. Even as a barely-there shape in the Dust, he wished for her by his side; anything to show that he hadn't left her behind utterly, that there was still some piece of his soul that carried her impression with it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, there was only Roach, who had apparently forgiven him for the intrusion of her space for the night, and had started nudging curiously at his hair. Slowly, he rubbed one hand across the arch of her cheek and grimaced at the tickle of her whiskers against his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It took time to train a witcher's horse, and not just because there were a number of signals and commands they needed to learn before they could be trusted on a hunt. Animals had no concept of what a witcher was - all they knew was that a witcher looked like a human and smelled like a predator, like something that waited in the dark, or hid amongst the tall grass. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their fear of him was simple, and with enough training and time spent with them, it could be overcome. They were afraid because he was something dangerous, and once they had been taught to ignore that fear, he was no longer a threat to them and it started to ease.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Humans should be easier, he thought. They were capable of rational thought, of reasoning with themselves even through the shroud that their terror cast over their mind. They should be; but they weren't. In Geralt's experience, they embraced their fear of him, used their rationality to devise a thousand new reasons to be afraid, and spread the tales far and wide. Humans looked at him and saw not the uncomplicated danger of a predator, but the messy, tangled threat of something that was shaped like a man, but had no true soul.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt couldn't even blame them. He thought that he'd be scared too, if he were in their place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier had never been scared. Even when he should have been. Even when Geralt had wanted him to be, short lived though that was.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite himself, Geralt couldn't help but be relieved that Jaskier hadn't had time to truly register what had happened before he managed to slip away; that there hadn't been time for the terror, the anger, the </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurt </span>
  </em>
  <span>to settle over him. Perhaps it was selfish of him, but Geralt was glad that he would have the stench of it clinging to his skin and clothes for days to come.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, the salt-sweet scent of Jaskier's sweat was heavy on his hands, his shoulders; all the places the bard had touched. It was a good smell, an honest smell - sweat from the exertion of dancing all night, consumed by his love of performing. Not even the fighting that had broken out had been enough to sour it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was in his hair, too - he caught the scent every time he shifted his weight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he focused, he could probably still hear Jaskier and Ness talking; the stables weren't that far from the inn, and he hardly had to focus to pick out their familiar voices from a bustling crowd. He could - but he wouldn't. It would be one more breach of privacy, one more step over the line. Instead, he kept his focus centred around the stables - the slow, pounding hearts of the horses, the flutter of wings in the rafters, the whisper of a mouse searching for a way into the bran stores. He kept listening until his breathing at last began to ease - he bumped his forehead against Roach's nose and she gave a snort that sounded distinctly unimpressed before turning back to her haynet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After years of barely going a few months without Jaskier, it would be strange to be on the Path with just her for company again, but Geralt would adjust. It was just something else he would have to learn to live with.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Above him, there was another rustle of feathers from the rafters, and a slow suspicion began to creep up the back of his neck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ongalness?" He said, and this time there was a guilty air to the sound of wings above him. Geralt's eyes drifted shut; his face collapsed on itself like burnt paper. Had she been compelled to follow after him? If he left now, barefoot and weaponless as he was, would she be dragged behind, farther and farther from Jaskier until the bond eventually snapped? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Could he not even grant them freedom from his presence without hurting them further? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Whatever it is you're thinking that's put that look on your face, stop it right now," she said from somewhere above him. How had he not noticed her following him? Had he been subconsciously only listening for footsteps? Jaskier was still nowhere nearby, he was certain of that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What are you doing here?" Maybe she had simply followed him to make sure he didn't do anything stupid, like claim another child, or steal another daemon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She huffed at him, and he knew the sound well enough that he could imagine perfectly the way her feathers would puff up with her indignation as she shook her head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We were worried about you," she said, as though she thought it should have been obvious. To Geralt, the words made no sense. Why would they be worried about </span>
  <em>
    <span>him? </span>
  </em>
  <span>"Jaskier wanted to come too, but I said he should stay behind with your things, to make sure you couldn't run off without us knowing."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The fact that he had been considering doing exactly that didn't make it any easier to hear coming from her. When had they learnt to read him so easily?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>More importantly, why wouldn't they want him to leave without their knowing? It would be better for them all, surely, if he went as unobtrusively as possible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unless - </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Shit, fucking son of a bastard alghoul, had he made it worse, with one careless touch? Had it been enough to… to…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No, it couldn't have been. Ness was there, she was fine, and Jaskier had to be well enough to hold a conversation with her, to argue his points. Perhaps he had made things worse, perhaps he had ruined everything, but at the very least Jaskier and Ness still had each other.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Didn't I just tell you to stop thinking whatever that is?" Ness snapped. Geralt turned a doleful glare to the rafters, and caught a glint of torchlight reflecting in her beady eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Maybe I was thinking something different that time," he said flatly; despite herself, Ness laughed at that, a quick bark of sound. It was so much like their usual manner of speaking that Geralt caught himself unthinkingly beginning to relax. He shook his head brusquely, and turned his eyes back to Roach. Above him, he heard Ness sigh gently - a quick flurry of movement, and Geralt shrunk back against the wall without thinking, even as he realised that she had settled on Roach’s hindquarters.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her head cocked to one side as she watched him - he didn’t like to think what sort of a sight he must have made, cowering away from her. She shuffled her weight and ducked her head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry - </span>
  <em>
    <span>we’re</span>
  </em>
  <span> sorry,” she said at last. Geralt didn’t flinch only because he was frozen in place. Sorry? What did they have to be sorry for in all of this? What part of this, of what he had done could they possibly think they had to apologise to him for? Some of his confusion must have shown in his face - or maybe she just knew him well enough to know what thoughts must be tearing themselves apart in his mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We should have told you, back when we first noticed; or at least, when we realised that being with you made it easier,” she said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt - well, he couldn’t argue that. If he had known about this sooner, if he had just…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why didn’t you?” He asked. For a moment, he wondered if they had been afraid to tell him - of what he would do if he found out, of </span>
  <em>
    <span>him, </span>
  </em>
  <span>if this truly was his doing in some way. But no; he would have known if they were afraid of him, would have heard terror in their pounding hearts, would have scented it on the air. Any fear they’d had was too short-lived for him to even realise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It should have been a relief, a comfort to him. It should have - but if not fear, then </span>
  <em>
    <span>why?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“At first, we just weren’t sure,” Ness said. Her beak clicked, so much like the nervous way Jaskier sometimes bit and chewed at his lips when he couldn’t make a composition work the way he wanted it to. “And then when we realised what was happening, we knew you’d do this. Run away, I mean.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a part of him that wanted to protest - that he wasn’t running away, that he was only trying to give them the space they needed to get away from him, that he was trying to protect them - but he knew there was no point.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should’ve told me,” he said instead. “You should’ve </span>
  <em>
    <span>let </span>
  </em>
  <span>me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Geralt -” she started, and then broke off. She shuffled from foot to foot until Roach stomped a hoof in irritation, and even then she couldn’t seem to remain completely still. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She met Geralt’s eyes, though; fearless and firm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We didn't want you blaming yourself for this," she said, heavily. Geralt could feel the way his mouth began to twist, how his lip curled back just enough to show the sharp edges of his teeth. Who else was he supposed to blame? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Destiny? </span>
  </em>
  <span>No, no this one was purely his own fault. "We were the ones that kept pushing ourselves to see how far we could go, and - and we were the ones that kept pushing you. So we're sorry for that, too. I - we - </span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>won't keep getting so close if you… I mean, if you really hate it, then I'll be careful."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wasn't that the worst part? He didn't hate it - not the way she meant. The warmth, the closeness, knowing that they trusted him so implicitly, so thoughtlessly; how could he possibly hate that? It was terrifying, the sort of true fear he could barely remember from before the trials, and he had felt like he had been poised on a knife edge, waiting for a single slip to cut him deep enough to reach his heart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It doesn't matter," he muttered, looking down at his hands. There was no difference between the skin that had touched her and the skin that hadn't, though it felt as though there should be. "I'll go, come morning. Can't risk being around you both any longer, and maybe there'll be a mage somewhere that can help… I could -"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Please don't." Her voice broke, split sharply down the middle of the words. "I mean - if you, if you really want to, then we won't stop you, but Geralt, please, if you're trying to do what you think is best for us, then don't."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt had never been any good at finding the words he needed to win an argument - he was a witcher, after all, and there weren't many situations he found himself in that couldn't be solved with silver, or steel, or a harsh glare. Against Ness, he had no hope of winning, inasmuch as there could be any winners here.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he had to try - had to try to make her, make them </span>
  <em>
    <span>both </span>
  </em>
  <span>see.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ongalness, I can't stay knowing what I'm doing to you," he said, watching as she puffed up and then consciously smoothed her feathers back down. "I can't be the reason that you're -"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You aren't!" She snapped. "We aren't severing, and even if we were, it wouldn't be your fault! The only ones who have done anything about this are me and Jaskier, so if you're going to blame anyone, then blame us, but that's stupid too, because this is something different!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"But you said that with me, you could -"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I can go further with you, yes, but I can still leave Jaskier's side when it's just us." She paused, and took a moment to collect herself. Geralt could hear her heart thrumming, small and light. "Jaskier and I are… we're a song, a duet, and parts can be sung separately and they'll still make sense, they'll sound </span>
  <em>
    <span>good, </span>
  </em>
  <span>even if it's not the same as when they're sung together. We don't have to be sung together all the time to still be the same song."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt snorted - the analogy was so thoroughly </span>
  <em>
    <span>them</span>
  </em>
  <span> that he felt the meaning of it, even though it made almost no sense to him. He thought of Płotka, of the times they had tried to push themselves to the edge of their limits, of the way they inevitably circled back to one another. A song? Perhaps not, but he could remember knowing every one of her footfalls as well as he knew his own. Like feeling the rush of air past his blindfolded face as he trained, like sensing the vibration of the earth and catching a scent on the wind, like opening up every one of his senses to find his way home and never placing a foot wrong.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Was that what it was like for them, too, even as their bond stretched?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And what does that make me?" He asked before he could think better of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ness tilted her head thoughtfully.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Sometimes the audience sings along," she said at last, and though her beak was the wrong shape to show it, Geralt could hear the smile in her voice. "And the song doesn't change, but there are more voices, and isn't it wonderful? When someone lo- enjoys a song so much they can't help but join?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Or maybe the audience is shit at singing and ruins it completely," Geralt muttered. The stables were quiet enough that she heard him, though, and for a moment he thought she would hop down to rest on his knee and scold him inches from his face as she tended to do with Jaskier.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Maybe the audience has never tried," she said instead, staring hard at him. He didn't shift beneath her scrutiny, much as he wanted to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt's shoulders slumped after a moment. Jaskier and Ness were stubborn enough to follow him when he left unless he could convince them that he truly didn't wish for their company, and he knew that he wasn't an accomplished enough liar for that. Not when he had spent years aching for their conversation, for Jaskier's warmth beside him, for the easy comfort of his hands and voice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At least, if he travelled with them, instead of always looking over his shoulder and wondering when they would manage to catch him up, he would be able to keep an eye on the situation. He could promise himself that if it kept getting worse, he would still have a chance to leave; and besides, he could bring them to mages himself, could keep looking for a way to undo whatever it was he had done. Maybe he could even convince himself that he was doing so selflessly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet, and nodded slightly at Ness's curious look. She didn't cheer, or laugh, but her excited fluttering around the stable was enough to make Roach pin her ears back in irritation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He followed her out of the stables, and watched as she darted back up to the windowsill of their room; she, in turn, watched him closely to make sure he didn't take the opportunity to run off into the night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enough time had passed that he could slip easily back into the inn without being noticed by anyone except the owner, who glared suspiciously at him from beneath heavy brows, but otherwise didn't react to his presence. Without his boots, his tread up the stairs was even quieter than normal, but despite that, Jaskier flung the door open just as he lifted a hand to lift the latch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ness may have promised to avoid coming too close to him, but clearly Jaskier didn't feel that the same restrictions applied to him, and he barely hesitated before dragging Geralt across the threshold and into a rough embrace. One hand curled against the nape of Geralt's neck - something he would never have allowed anyone other than Jaskier or the other Wolves to do - while the other settled at the small of his back and gripped his shirt tight enough to pull at the seams.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It took all of Geralt's strength not to immediately slump into Jaskier's hold; the relief of it was overwhelming, and threatened to close his throat around his next breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier smelled as he always had - of cloves, and the oils he used for his lute, and sweat, and Geralt. There was no trace of fear in his scent; without thinking, Geralt ducked his head until he could press his nose against the bared skin of his neck, where the scent was so strong he could almost taste it. Jaskier shuddered, and tightened his grip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt's own hands had found a place to rest at his hips, the jut of them familiar beneath his palms. He lost himself in the hold for a moment, until he glanced up, and realised that his sword was strapped across Jaskier's back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he hadn't been so shocked, he might have laughed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier stepped back slightly as he felt Geralt's grip on him slacken, and sniffed a little haughtily when he saw what had caught his attention.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well, as my stubborn Ness insisted I stay behind, I thought I should at least take some of your things hostage, in case you tried to sneak away later in the night," he said; Ness had perched herself on the unsteady chair in the corner of the room, and was doing her best to look innocent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And you thought my sword was the best choice?" Geralt asked, amused despite himself. He snorted, and unbuckled the scabbard too quickly for Jaskier to react, holding it in front of his face with one brow raised pointedly. Jaskier flushed, but his jaw jutted out, every bit as stubborn as his Ness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well I wasn't about to start trying on your armour, and sweet Melitele help me if I dropped one of your witchery potions, but I thought everything else you wouldn't care if you had to leave behind," he said. "But even if I'd fallen asleep wearing this, somehow - and it really is quite uncomfortable Geralt, how in the world do you cope with the cumbersome thing? - then I would probably wake up when you took it back, which would at least give me a chance to talk some sense into you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"As though you could manage to talk any sense that Ongalness hadn't already thrown at me," Geralt said. It was a poor imitation of his usual humour, but still Ness cackled from her spot across the room, and Jaskier gasped as though scandalised. His eyes danced when they met Geralt's, and although they were still swollen and rimmed with red from crying, the faint laughter lines at the corners creased fondly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"How's this for sense - we've both been awake for far too long, and I don't know about you, but I think everything is finally starting to catch up to me," Jaskier said, and yawned hugely as though to prove his point. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"A lot has happened," Geralt acknowledged drily. He kept a wary eye on Ness as he rested his sword against the wall beside the bed, where it would be in easy reach, but true to her word, she didn't come any closer to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier snorted, and threw himself bodily onto the bed, sprawling across it. Geralt stared at the scant space he'd left for a long moment - just yesterday, he wouldn't have thought twice about arranging himself around the tangle of Jaskier's limbs and settling down to sleep or meditate. Now, he knelt close to the fireplace, long since burnt down to embers, and rested his hands on his knees. He could feel two heavy stares on his back, but he didn't turn around; even after the rustle of feathers told him that Ness had tucked herself into Jaskier's chest, or into the curve of his shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tomorrow, they would leave Cintra, and not return. Tomorrow, he would begin searching for a mage that would be able to do something about this; or would at least be able to tell him what it was he had done. Tomorrow, Jaskier would walk beside Roach, Ness perched on his shoulder or flying by his side, and Geralt would keep his distance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tonight - or what was left of it - Geralt would rest, would prepare himself. Jaskier would sleep deeply and easily in the same room as the witcher that was stealing his daemon away from him, and Ness would keep staring holes into his back until she, too, fell asleep.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tonight, Geralt would wish for the soothing press of a not-quite-there figure against his side, and would instead feel nothing but the gentle warmth of the dying fire.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Been a while since I wrote from Jaskier's POV, hopefully I still remember how :s Also I wrote a lot of dialogue in this chapter for someone who hates talking, woof</p><p>I have hesitantly marked this as a two-parter, as I may post Geralt's terrible horrible no good very bad decision making process as part of this, or it may be absorbed into the next installment. Unclear.</p><p>On a more cheerful note, for those of you that don't mind spoilers of her settled (Dust) form, I have found actual live footage of Płotka and Ness (skip to 1 minute in): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c4NO24D1bkQ</p></blockquote></div></div>
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